


Ritardando

by sass_bot



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Fluff without Plot, Nonbinary Detective, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27385318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_bot/pseuds/sass_bot
Summary: After waking up from yet another nightmare, Detective Zuma Zaitouneh finds themself wandering the halls of the agency warehouse, drawn towards their lover by the lilt of a piano melody.
Relationships: Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Ritardando

**Author's Note:**

> Happiest of birthdays to one Natalie Sewell <3 May she live 300 more years.
> 
> The pet names used are Arabic and here are their translations:  
> \- Rouh Albi: My heart's soul  
> \- Albi: My heart

The air is cold in Zuma’s warehouse bedroom. The sheets they’ve bunched up around them are cold, too. Their nose feels like it’s about to fall off their face, and they can even feel the chill seep in through their socks. With a sigh, they grab their phone, letting its dim blue light illuminate their face.

 _2:47am_ it tells them.

They rub their sore eyes with the pads of their thumbs. They wouldn’t have even felt the cold had they not been awoken by yet another dream about Murphy. Every night he seems to creep ever closer – exponentially so even – but their eyes snap open before he does without fail. This, unfortunately, has the side effect of keeping them awake until dawn.

They shove the sheets off of themself and swing their legs off the side of the bed, slipping into their cozy slippers. Their legs feel heavy as they shamble like a zombie over to their bedroom door. As they make to turn the handle, their fatigue-addled mind catches a sound like stars twinkling in the sky – like sparkling glass dust sprinkling onto the surface of their chest.

They let out a quiet yawn. They don’t really have the energy to make any complex decisions. Their movements are controlled solely by instinct. They hear a noise; they follow the noise. Tethered by their ear, they find themselves being reeled in by a bittersweet tune – it weaves in and out of their heart in much the same way their mind weaves them in and out of consciousness.

The icy walls of the warehouse pass them by, and as they do, the tinkle of the music bounces higher and higher in the air until it drowns Zuma’s whole mind in its heady essence. Their fingers brush against the walls, idly playing along with the melody in their own lazy way.

Zuma finds themself at solid wooden door – the door leading into the living room – the only barrier between them and the stars they’ve been restlessly chasing after. They lay their ear against the door, inhaling the scent of the old wood and nearly falling right back to sleep. They snap back to awareness and push the door open, letting a rush of warmth come over them.

Their eyes are drawn like a moth to light to the ebony grand piano and the woman teasing the keys gracefully at the bench. They eye her dark brown hair, cascading down her slender shoulders and back in silky waves – her slender fingers dancing their skillful dance – her brow slightly creased in concentration.

She does not look up at Zuma until she has finished her piece, and when she does, all hints of stress on her face have melted away like winter yields to spring. With a great smile on her face, she flutters up off the piano bench and glides towards Zuma, scooping their partner’s hands into hers.

“Why are you up, my love? Is everything alright?”

More beautiful than the piano jingle is the honey-smooth tone of Nat’s voice, that embraces Zuma and injects warmth back into their frozen limbs. Her dark eyes reflect Zuma’s dumbfounded face back unto them, and they find themself unable to conjure words.

Nat lets out half a chuckle as she pulls Zuma into the room and sets them down onto the piano bench where she’d been sitting earlier. “Did you come to listen to me play?” She takes a seat beside them, her legs touching theirs through her silky pajama pants, her shoulders pressed up against them. The proximity is enough to send a jolt of awareness into them.

Zuma leans their head into Nat’s shoulder, letting their cold cheek absorb some of her warmth. “Teach me how you do that with your fingers,” they croak into her arm.

She presses her lips into the mop of unkempt black curls on Zuma’s head and reaches for the keys again. Her fingers effortlessly skip across the keys in a sweeping arpeggio melody. “What would you like me to teach you, _rouh albi_?”

They blush at the nickname that slips from her lips so thoughtlessly. “ _That_ ,” they blurt out, straightening up and watching amusement light up her auburn eyes.

“That’s a bit advanced. Let’s take it slow,” she croons, taking Zuma’s left hand in her own. She places it in Zuma’s lap. She then reaches for their right hand, gingerly positioning their fingers on the keys. “How about we try C Major first?”

Zuma nods, pressing her thumb into the piano, starting when it lets out a harsh C note.

Nat laughs, tickling Zuma’s heart into a frenzy. “Darling, you need to be gentle.” She places her hand over theirs. “Slowly, now.” She presses their thumb into the keys again; it’s the same note, but it drifts across their senses rather than crashing in all at once.

Nat walks her fingers over Zuma’s. “It’s important to know the proper fingering before we start.”

Zuma can’t help but snort even in their sleep-deprived state. But before they can open their mouth to make the vulgar joke sitting at the tip of their tongue, Nat leans in to cover their lips with hers.

“Don’t you dare, Zumurrud,” she scolds – but it is not as biting when the taste of her kiss lingers on their tongue.

They smile and place another peck at her lips. “Fine. I’ll be serious; I promise.”

Nat pulls away, satisfied. “Good. Because if you won’t, it’s back to bed with you, I’m afraid.”

Zuma moves their free hand to their lips in a zipping gesture; they lock it, and then they throw away the key, eliciting another precious giggle from Nat.

Starting at their thumb, she says, “This is one –” and moving over to their index finger – “two…” their middle finger “three…” their ring finger “four…” and finally, their pinky. “and five.”

She pulls her hand away and Zuma instantly feels the heat trapped between them dissipate. Nat places her hand two octaves lower. “Start on C with one. And then go one-two-three, one-two-three-four-five until you get to the next C. Like so.” She demonstrates the maneuver, and Zuma feels the piano’s vibrations beneath their fingers.

“Like this?” They try to match the elegant way Nat’s fingers played the scale; however, they find themself drunkenly stumbling through it. They inhale sharply and avoid Nat’s gaze.

Nat’s hand travels back to theirs, stroking the tension out of their fingers in languid circular motions. “Slower, _albi_ ,” she mumbles against Zuma’s ear, causing a shiver to run down their spine. “One finger at a time. Try it again.” She shifts her hand and plays it again, decreasing the speed but with no less dancer-like grace in her motions.

Zuma glues their eyes to the keys and tentatively tries again. They can hear Nat’s voice in their head, gently urging them, “One-two-three, one-two-three-four-five…” It’s clunky and not nearly as delicate as Nat had made it sound, but they make it through the scale.

A delighted chuckle escapes Nat’s lips. “Oh! Well done!” She presses a kiss into Zuma’s cheek. Her slender fingers move to cup Zuma’s chin and turn them to face her. She then captures their lips in a heated kiss.

“Is this my reward for getting it right?” Zuma laughs into Nat’s mouth.

She presses another kiss into the corner of their lips before pulling away, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Maybe. But let us take it somewhere more comfortable, hm?”

With that, she rises to her feet, pulling Zuma up with her and drags the both of them onto the couch, where they collapse in a tangle of limbs – where the music lesson is long forgotten. The heat from the hearth casts a warm glow over the couple, and the autumn chill that drew Zuma out of their room is the echo of a memory in the back of their mind.


End file.
